


Crooked aim

by LiveOakWithMoss, TheLionInMyBed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (The alternative comes later), (Which is honestly less gross than the alternative), Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Hate Sex, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Violence, we're both very sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:56:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8448763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/pseuds/TheLionInMyBed
Summary: We are hard on each other and call it honesty.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> June: I really don't ship it.
> 
> Lion: Same.
> 
> June: But if I DID
> 
> Lion: Go on

When they ran out of the usual ways to torment each other they turned to something new.

“Shut up,” said Maedhros, pinning Maglor down. “Stop _crying_.”

Maglor smiled through his tears. “Does my distress dismay you, brother?” he whispered, his eyes glittering maliciously.

“It annoys me,” said Maedhros. “If you’re going to keep doing that, turn over so I don’t have to watch it.”

Now it was Maglor’s turn to be annoyed; turning over would ruin half of his dramatic performance. “No,” he said at last, and squeezed out a few more tears. “If you are to debase me, I wish you to see my face and know exactly what - and who - you are doing.”

Maedhros made an exasperated sound and released Maglor, getting up off the bed. “Fine. You win. I can’t take your sniveling.”

Maglor took a moment to be viciously satisfied at having scored a point against his brother’s apparently limitless discomfort threshold, but he was uncomfortably aroused still and not ready for the fight to be over.

“No,” he whimpered, rolling onto his stomach. “It is fine. Take what you need from me, dear brother. I shall not begrudge your base ne- _mpphh_.” He was cut off as Maedhros shoved his face down into the pillows and mounted him roughly. He settled for making helpless keening noises that he knew would add to Maedhros’s irritation, even though he suspected they would be wasted. Maedhros had paused to fumble for something on the bedside table, and it was far more likely to be his wax earplugs than soothing oils.

He squirmed beneath Maedhros, trying to rise up to his knees so he could get a hand around his cock, but Maedhros chuckled and pinned his arms down. One arm, anyway.

“You can’t even manage both?” gasped Maglor, turning his head to the side so he could speak – and ideally, breathe a little. “Pathetic.”

“What do you want from me? I have only one hand. Just keep your arms above your head if you know what’s good for you.” He jerked Maglor’s left arm up, and Maglor brought his right to join it. Maedhros’s hand closed over both wrists, the bones grinding together, and Maglor debated between crying at the pain and pretending Maedhros was too feeble to affect him. He decided on the latter for the nonce, as it tended to make Maedhros work to prove otherwise.

“I shall have to resist very feebly,” he said, around a mouthful of his own hair. “Lest I overpower you and – ”

But Maedhros had his earplugs in again.

Maglor spread his knees and resigned himself to grinding against the bunched up sheets to ease his arousal; the bludgeoning Maedhros was giving him would not be enough on its own to get him anywhere. He knew that Maedhros would view the inequity of their pleasure as a point for himself, and so he determined to rough out a climax to spite him.

The knowledge that it was his own sheets he’d be ruining bothered him a little – maybe he could incite Maedhros to fuck him in that hideous nest he called a bed next time – especially since he knew Maedhros would pull out before his own climax and spend himself wherever would be the least convenient. The last time it had been in Maglor’s hair, but Maglor was hoping their current position would make that transition harder to execute. And if Maedhros did manage it, Maglor thought happily, he could let his hair hang damply into his face as he wept – maybe he would even cling to Maedhros’s neck in pitiful supplication – and wipe snot and seed onto Maedhros’s shoulder.

He grunted and gave a moan that wasn’t at all staged as Maedhros rammed into him at a certain angle and sent pleasure shooting through him, his cock leaking against the wadded up sheets.

“Damn,” muttered Maedhros, and readjusted.

 

* * *

 

Maedhros was not, he reluctantly admitted, as good at this as Maglor. He could hurt him very badly - worse than even his brother's overactive imagination might allow for - but physical pain was not the point. It would just give Maglor an excuse to shirk his duties and mope about the fortress, weeping melodramatically with his hair hanging in his face and his unnecessary bandages upon display.

But what to do instead? What would discomfit someone so bent upon masochistic self-destruction?

The answer was actually very obvious. Maedhros set the ear plugs aside - they weren't necessary anyway since Maglor, upon realising he no longer had an audience, had stopped moaning - and released his brother's wrists to lay one hand upon his back. Maglor was thin - they were both too thin now - and Maedhros could have counted the knobs of his spine by touch had he been so inclined. ( _Thirty and three. Seven cervical vertebrae and seven hundred pounds of force needed to fracture them._ )

"Be easy," he said, still careful not to allow Maglor any pleasure, but gentle enough that he would not cause pain either. "Lie still, sweetheart." He could barely keep from cringing himself but it was worth it for Maglor's full-body flinch - both for the discomfort it evidenced and the sudden tightness about his cock. It was always a struggle to find any pleasure when Maglor lay there limp as a fresh corpse.

" _Ai_ , brother," Maglor said with a voice so weak and quavering that Maedhros rolled his eyes. "Do you think this grotesque parody of tenderness will move me to forgive your wrongs?"

"That's a question to ask the boys," Maedhros said and then cursed himself for forgetting his role so quickly.

"Don't you speak of them," Maglor snapped, struggling so that he might turn his head to glare and, Maedhros could not help but note, also gain more friction against the tangled blankets. "Not now."

"I'm sorry," Maedhros said, not very contritely. As a better apology, he leaned forwards and pressed a kiss to the back of Maglor's neck where lank, dark hair gave way to pallid skin. "I can't undo the past but I can do better now. Please. Let me take care of you." He shifted, finding the right angle again, and pressed in.

His body remembered what to do and, now released, Maglor's hand snaked around to grab his own cock and tug at it in time to Maedhros's thrusts. Maedhros whispered to him as he fucked him - words that he had thought he had forgotten slipping from his tongue with a hideous ease. Words that he knew Maglor had eavesdropped upon but never heard directed at himself.

Maglor was whining again but this lacked the affected, put-upon edge and Maedhros was pretending not to hate him besides, and so he grit his teeth and did not force him silent.

"You're safe," Maedhros hissed, tasting bile. "I have you. _Beloved_."

With a wail, Maglor shuddered and came. He would have to burn the sheets, Maedhros noted with some satisfaction as he withdrew and tucked himself back into his clothing.

"What about you?" said Maglor, breathless and bedraggled.

"This wasn't about me," Maedhros said, horribly gentle.

This time Maglor did not flinch though Maedhros feared that he might have himself. Maglor was still too dazed to see it but he would recover quickly and Maedhros did not wish to be around for that. He dragged the sticky, ruined blanket out from under his brother and dropped it atop him and then stalked from the room.

He celebrated his victory by retching up everything he had eaten that day and then getting very, very drunk. Drunk enough that he could forget what he had said and, more importantly, when he had last heard those words spoken and by whom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Point, counterpoint.

Maedhros had changed the rules of their game and Maglor was thrown. No, more than thrown, Maglor was  _outraged._

There had been a moment – just at the finish, unnerved by the gentle hand at his waist and the lips at his nape and the – and the pleasure – and his brother’s words, at the end –

There had been a moment, when Maglor had forgotten there was a game to be played.

He had pushed himself up, shaking and spent, and turned, instinctively, to the sound of his brother’s voice. He'd raised his eyes - in hope, in _hope!_  - seeking his brother's face. For an instant, he was young again, a fool again, full of curious wonder. For an instant he was back a thousand years to the youth he had been, to the younger brother who had loved and revered Maedhros as his model and mentor, to the second son who had wept in relief to see his brother’s battered body returned to them from hell. For a moment, Maglor wanted his brother's touch, his reassurance, the comfort of a steady voice and clear grey eyes, the knowledge that he was safe - cared for.

Maglor staggered, skin sticking to the sheets, and Maglor turned, seeking, and Maglor reached out, confused –

But Maedhros had already turned away.

And Maglor hated him once more.

 

* * *

 

Left alone with the lingering smell of Maedhros’s fetid furs and his own semen drying on his bedclothes and skin, Maglor had only let himself tremble on the bed for a moment. Then he rose, hair hanging into his eyes as he bent to pluck his clothes from the ground, and began to plot his counter-play. Removed from his momentary lapse, cold once more, he could think more clearly about what had occured and the sheer audacity of Maedhros's victory. 

He mulled his brother's change as he stripped his bed and then scrubbed himself in the washroom, examining the bruises on his hips that had actually been allowed to get old. The fresh ones, at his wrists, barely showed at all.

Maglor bit his tongue until he tasted blood, trying to conjure the usual satisfaction at ill-use. Instead, his body felt languorous with pleasure and dull without the jitter of adrenaline that usually sharpened his mind and sculpted his voice into impeccable agony. Remembered tenderness conjured only a whine in the back of his mouth and a stabbing pain in his temples. Maglor dashed his hand into the basin, sending water across the floor.

What was Maedhros playing at? How had he so perfectly executed this win?

He stalked naked back to his room and let the moonlight draw its pale fingers across his skin, mottling it with shadows. He would not even bother to sing tonight, knowing the irritation in the back of his throat and the memory of Maedhros’s caress would flatten any note he attempted.

He wrapped a wool blanket around himself and lay down on his bare bed, still thinking.

_You’re safe._

A lie he should have thrown back in his brother’s face, had he been able to see it.

_I have you._

Maglor shuddered, desire once again rising unbidden in his loins. The words evoked something in him, and he refused to believe it had anything to do with the one who had spoken them in that rasping growl.

 _Lie still, sweetheart_.

His throat tensed like he was going to throw up, and he dug his fingers into his thighs until his arousal waned again. Where had Maedhros unearthed those words? Maglor twisted himself more tightly into the blankets, shivering with sudden anger. How dare Maedhros think he could suddenly change the rules and shift the roles? How dare he think he could just step into a new script, a new voice, a -

Maglor sat bolt upright.

But Maedhros wasn’t stepping into a new voice, was he?

It was an old voice. A voice he had loved, and memorized. A voice never intended for Maglor.

Maglor lay back down, a smile spreading across his face as he considered the profundity of Maedhros’s betrayal.

How it must have _cost_ him.

Maglor smiled wider. It would cost him still more yet.

He wondered how far he would be able to push before Maedhros broke.

 

* * *

 

He put his plan into motion the next day.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, making Maedhros jump like he’d heard the rasp of a drawn blade. “How pale you are.” He cocked his head, concern writ across his features, and Maedhros stared at him. Calling Maedhros pale was like calling him ‘redheaded’ or ‘tall’ - both redundant and self-evident. But Maedhros’s shock, Maglor knew, came not from the last four words, but from the first.

Maglor smiled to himself.

 _One_.

 

* * *

 

He waited another week before he tried it again, to lull Maedhros into a false sense of security. They were walking down the long halls of the east wing together, the boys to bed for the night, and Maedhros was ignoring him – as in fact he had done, whenever possible, for the past eight days. Before Maedhros turned to his own door, Maglor caught the crook of his arm, letting his fingers stroke over the knotted sinew.

“Wait.”

“What?” Maedhros turned, and the hard, wary expression on his face was what Maglor loved best. But he gazed into Maedhros’s face ardently, like he saw the prince of old, rather than the creature that had been thrown back in his place.

“I only wanted to wish you goodnight,” said Maglor softly.

“And now you have,” said Maedhros, after a moment, but before he could turn away, Maglor took his other arm and rose up on his toes.

“Sleep well, sweetheart,” he said, and kissed Maedhros on the lips.

A first.

Maedhros’s expression of rigid shock and revulsion was enough to keep Maglor from spitting or wiping his lips until he was out of sight.

Once around the corner, he leaned against the wall and dragged his tongue against his sleeve until the bitterness was gone from it. Deep in the shadows, he tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were shining with happiness.

The sour taste of Maedhros’s mouth was nothing to the taste of a win.

 _Two._

 

* * *

A month passed. 

Maglor was preoccupied with the children, whose education was taking a great deal of his energy and focus. Maedhros avoided them all, spending much of his time with the soldiers and on long patrols, and when Maglor did see him at meals, Maedhros seemed to subsist primarily on dark wine and white smoke, rather than the gamey meat Tuluspen’s hunting patrol brought in.

Maglor ladled a second helping of stew into Elrond’s bowl and absently dabbed gravy from the corner of the boy’s mouth. “Don’t slurp.”

“I want seconds too,” said Elros, eyeing the stew pot.

“You’ve left all your vegetables in the bottom of the bowl,” said Maglor, gentle but firm. “You will only get more meat when you have finished _all_ that has been served you.”

Elros grumbled and began to mangle an overcooked carrot with his spoon.

Maglor glanced over at Maedhros, who was leaning back in his chair, his pale eyes narrowed and his own bowl untouched before him. Maglor stood, starting to sweep some crumbs from the table onto the floor. Tuluspen was standing in the corner, waiting for his word to summon the servants to clear the table.

Maglor’s wrist nudged Maedhros’s bowl as he reached for the butter dish. He sighed and brushed a hand carelessly over his brother’s hair.

“Eat up, sweetheart, you’re too thin,” he said, almost without thinking. It happened this way, sometimes, that he inhabited a role until it became natural, and the words came unbidden. But it was the way he touched Maedhros’s hair as he spoke - softly, affectionately, possessively - that secured his victory.

Snarling, Maedhros lunged for his throat.

 _Three_.

Maglor screamed. A crystal goblet, one of the only ones they had left – Maglor hazily remembered it may have come from Nargothrond, with Curufin – shattered

“Sweetheart? I’ll show you sweetheart,” roared Maedhros, his teeth at Maglor’s skin, his hand tearing at Maglor’s clothes. There was rending flesh, and pain, and the children were crying - or cheering - Maglor couldn’t tell.

The guards cleared the hall – Tuluspen, as ever, was impeccable at her job – dragging the boys from their chairs and locking the doors behind them. They neither lingered nor intervened.

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” hissed Maedhros. “I should kill you here, this night.” And he backhanded Maglor until he saw stars.

“Three!” Maglor whispered happily, watching his blood stain Maedhros’s mouth. “Three times was all it took to prove you exactly the monster I knew you were.”

And he laughed and laughed as Maedhros bloodied and broke him, and then he wept, because if Maedhros was back to playing his proper role, then Maglor could return to his own. 

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. All due respect to [Margaret Atwood.](http://betweenpoems.tumblr.com/post/17267079337/we-are-hard-on-each-other-margaret-atwood)


End file.
